


Tradecraft

by winterfold



Series: professional bias [1]
Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, LA era, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 02:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfold/pseuds/winterfold
Summary: Vietor also excelled at tradecraft. “Every time you talk to a reporter, you’re not just trying to move the campaign message. You’re trying to extract information,” says Pete Giangreco, a longtime Obama adviser. “He was very good at picking things up, being careful about what he gives out.”— "Get Rich or Deny Trying,"The New Republic





	Tradecraft

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing is real, please don't tell anyone, thank you ♥ Also thank to [nahco3](/users/nahco3) & [skylinethroughthewindow](https://skylinethroughthewindow.tumblr.com/) for help in making this much better. 
> 
> Pairings might actually be something like: past Favs/Tommy, unrequited Lovett>Favs, unrequited Tommy>Lovett. Consider this a spin-off from [bachelor's party 'verse](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com/post/160568307697/can-you-imagine-tho-lovett-planning-a-bachelor), if you'd like.

Tommy knows something about secrets. Press secretary, NSC spokesman: it’s all about the control of information. It’s a line of work that attracts a certain type of person, and he’s good at it. Good at keeping secrets; good at knowing when someone else has them.

Lovett, on the other hand, barely keeps secrets at all. He’s loud and open and defiant about it, like that’s armor enough for him. For speechwriters, authenticity is always the watchword, and Lovett might be the purest example of that.

Sometimes, when Lovett’s spilling out his feelings, all his gestures amplified and heedless of anyone else around him—when Lovett picks out clothes to wear for what they say rather than what they don’t—when Lovett runs his eyes down other guys’ bodies, nakedly appraising and inviting reciprocation—Tommy wonders what it’d be like to live like that. The thing about keeping secrets is that they give you the illusion of control. He sometimes even believes in that illusion, even though he ought to know more than most about how unpredictable things are behind the scenes.

If he gave that up—laid out all his cards on the table, and let the chips fall where they may—maybe there’s something appealing about the idea of facing the universe’s whims straight on. A part of him wants it.

He doesn’t do it, though. Lovett might call him a coward for it, if he knew.

———

“Can you believe it?” Favs asks them both while they’re all walking back to their hotel. He’s pretty tipsy; hopefully he’s not gonna spend the entire day after his bachelor’s party throwing up. “I’m gonna be _married_.”

“Yeah, ’cause it’s not like you’ve been talking about it forever or anything,” Lovett says. He’d downed his share of drinks but he’s steady enough, his fingers curled around the crook of Favs’ elbow to keep him straying too far. “I mean, there’s always the chance Emily finally realizes she’s made a terrible mistake and flees the country, but that’s looking increasingly unlikely at this point, don’t you think?”

It takes a minute for Favs to focus on Lovett, but when he does he breaks into a smile that almost hurts to look at for how fond it is. “I love you, you know that?” he says to Lovett, lurching down to pull Lovett to his chest. The arm Lovett’s holding onto gets crushed between them, briefly. “And Tommy!” He turns to hug Tommy, too, a little uncoordinated. Favs is a couple inches shorter than him, so Tommy can see Lovett over his shoulder, the way his grip goes loose from where he’d been touching Favs so Favs can pull away. “The best friends anyone could have. I feel—I’m so lucky, I’ve got you guys, and Emily loves me, I don’t know how—”

“Yeah, you are drunk,” Tommy says, gently peeling Favs away from him and straightening the fake flower wreath someone had tipped onto his head at some point during the night. “Man, I’ve only ever seen you like this a couple of times.”

The night of the ‘08 election, watching the Midwestern states bloom in blue across the map; when they passed the ACA, unwieldy and imperfect as it was, the first step in a long journey to make things better. There are things Favs believes in down to his core, the things he talks about with fervor in his eyes: Barack Obama, the responsibility of the government to protect its people. It’s a surprise to find that he and Lovett have made it there with Emily, at the unshakable foundation to Jon Favreau’s life.

“It’s okay, isn’t it?” Favs says suddenly. “So many people are worried and scared and hurt, and I have—” His hand traces out a long arc through the air. “It’s not wrong?”

“I mean, cognitive dissonance is the new avocado toast, isn’t it,” Lovett says with a laugh, sliding both of his hands into his pockets. “Let’s not beat anyone up about it, all right? Everyone deserves to be happy once in a while.”

———

Andy’s caught up to them by the time they put Favs to bed, and promises to take blackmail pictures before he helps Favs with his hangover in the morning. Lovett keeps up a stream of chatter the whole time, and his eyes are fever-bright when Tommy catches sight of them; there’s color high on his face, and his words are just a little too quick, too sharp that it’s a wonder he doesn’t slice himself open on them as they tumble out.

“You okay?” Tommy asks, when they get to Lovett’s room. His room is the next one over, but he stays with his shoulder pressed against the doorjamb, watching Lovett kick off his shoes and drop onto the bed. He hadn’t had as many drinks as Lovett; the alcohol’s left a warm burn inside him, but his head feels perfectly clear.

“Well, my drinks had way more sugar than party boy back there,” Lovett says, tossing a forearm over his eyes. “Maybe it’s not as macho, but just considering sheer volume I can say that I am definitely less drunk.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything. From this angle, the light from the hall illuminates the shape of Lovett’s throat where his head’s thrown back.

Lovett looks at him then, and sighs. “You wanna come in, or you just gonna hover all night?”

Tommy has his keycard in his pocket; he thinks he can almost feel the shape of it against his thigh. But that’s not real, obviously—it’s only a thin piece of plastic, barely weighing anything at all.

He steps into the room, and lets the heavy door swing shut behind him.

“Pretty pathetic, isn’t it,” Lovett says. He’s twisting over to switch on a lamp, so all Tommy can see for a moment is the curve of Lovett’s back. “It is so embarrassingly cliche, I’m surprised you have any respect left for me. Like, _I_ don’t have any respect for me.”

The first time they talked about it, Lovett had asked, “Is it that obvious,” and Tommy had said “No,” with perfect honesty. Not unless you knew to look; not unless you were looking at Lovett the same way he looked at Favs.

“Tell me what it was like,” Lovett says abruptly. “The Obama campaign, when you and Favs were—” He breaks off, rubs his face. “No, actually, don’t. Definitely don’t. Wow, I might be more drunk than I thought.”

The bed’s not a good idea. Tommy drops into a chair and tries not to look too hard at Lovett, the bare part of his ankle. “I never should’ve told you,” he says. It wasn’t a big thing. He and Favs, out in the field, too deep in the campaign to think about anything else and exhausted enough that it seemed like a possibility at all. Nights when Favs dropped by his room for an hour, or two; nights when it was the other way around.

“Why’d you do it?”

“We didn’t actually talk about it,” Tommy says. “There wasn’t any soul-searching going on, we were all running on fumes.”

“No, I mean—” Lovett sits up, ankles crossed over each other, his elbows propped at his knees. “Why did you tell me about it.”

It had been cold. Tommy remembers. Lovett had been sprawled across the couch with a blanket thrown across his middle, complaining about the lack of good hook-up options on DC Grindr. He’d kept up a caustic running commentary on each profile, all of which amounted to “not enough like Favs,” and Tommy hadn’t been paying much attention until he looked up and found himself transfixed by the way a corner of the blanket had slipped off one leg entirely, so he could see the pink pads of Lovett’s toes.

It’s a psychological thing, this false sense of intimacy when you’re looking at something you normally don’t get to. An appeal to vulnerability, some long-held instinct. Tommy knows that, but he’d found himself telling Lovett anyway. A trade: a secret for a secret. It was perhaps the first time he’d knowingly given away something.

“I don’t know,” he says now, evenly. “Why does it matter?”

“Sure you do.” Lovett’s moving, sliding forward until he’s perched at the very edge of the bed, his hands curled at his sides. How much, the distance between them? Two steps, or three? “Should I tell you what I think?”

Tommy laughs. “You have never needed an invitation for that.”

Lovett’s feet hit the carpet. “You’re right.” With him standing up, while Tommy’s still seated, he has to look up to meet Lovett’s eyes. “I think,” he says, “you told me because you know what it’s like.”

Tommy’s counting out his breaths, in and out. Lovett’s shadow stretches long over the floor.

“I think,” Lovett says. One step. Two. The space between them feels thick, impossible to move in, but Lovett’s doing it anyway. “Maybe I’m not the only cliche in this room, and you told me because you wanted it the same way I did.”

Lovett’s hand is on his knee. Tommy has to try three times before he can get words out of his throat.

“You think,” he says, “I’m in love with Favs.”

It comes out flat. That’s what you do when you’re confronted with wrong information. Don’t confirm, don’t deny; state everything like a fact, and let people draw their own conclusions. He’d done it for so long, Iowa and the White House briefing room until it became a habit, and now he doesn’t know—how to break it, how to say “you’re wrong,” because Lovett’s so close and so far at the same time—

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Lovett says, and presses into the space between Tommy’s thighs. “Tell me I’m wrong, that you don’t want me to do this. Tell me to stop, and I will.”

What does Tommy want. What is he allowed to say. “Lovett—”

Lovett laughs, suddenly. “You can call me Jon, if you want,” he says, and reaches for Tommy’s fly.

**Author's Note:**

> In the hypothetical sequel, probably Lovett learns to fall in love a second time and Tommy learns to be a person. Also, a lot of sex. IN THE MEANWHILE: some angst.
> 
> I hang out on tumblr @undeployed, crying about podcasts.


End file.
